I'm Not Goin' Anywhere!
by FountainPenguin
Summary: Once upon a time there was a boy who clung to the tail of a cargo plane with all his little heart. (Written December 2013)


He had been the second-to-last to vote, and so the only one waiting for him outside was Harold. He sneered impressively as he pushed his way into the bathroom.

"Seriously, it was a stick! A _stick_! Gosh!"

The door slammed shut, making Ezekiel cringe. His confident smile disappeared. Once Harold had gone, Ezekiel immediately began to slap himself in the eye with the palm of his hand.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…"

Yesterday he had been flung out from the jet as it was running along the runway. His shoulder was still bruised from that, and it had taken all the strength he had in order to run and hitch a ride on the plane's landing gear. Then he had braved the pyramids in Egypt alone. Surely after all that, his time in this game couldn't be drawing to a close? Not so soon. Not again.

And now they wanted to send him home, just because he had been holding the stupid stick. It just wasn't fair.

Ezekiel stopped hitting himself and instead placed his palms together and turned his eyes towards the curved ceiling of the jet.

"Please," he whispered. "Please God, ya know we need the money. An' Mom just keeps gettin' worse e'ery single day…"

He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze slipping towards his shoes.

"An' I know that y'already mean to take her away from us soon. She's just too sick, eh? But that ain't fair. Please, just… I always believed in you, y'know? But Mom got sick… an' there was that incident with the horses… my cousins… those medical bills… an' the farm just keeps gettin' lower and lower…

He sighed.

"Dad's havin' a hard 'nough time as it is payin' the hired help. We're just barely sneakin' by. I always believed in you, God, just like Mom'n Dad taught me to… but where've you been when I needed you lately, eh? Just… just please don't let 'em throw me out first. Not again. I mean, if you're takin' my mother… I'm all that my dad's got left, an' I've gotta make him proud, show him that Zeke's a real man now, save the farm. I've just gotta get-"

The door burst open and slammed against the wall with a great _crack_. Harold shouted "Hi-ya!" and Ezekiel about jumped out of his skin.

"Yo, yo, dawg!" he snapped, placing a trembling hand against his chest. "Ya nearly gave me an attack a' my heart just then, eh!"

"You're still here?" Harold asked, dropping his arms to his sides. A quickly-spreading bruise near his pinkie finger suggested that he had karate-chopped through the door. "Huh. I thought they would have thrown you out by now." He pushed his way past Ezekiel again, this time in the other direction. A second time he muttered, "It was a _stick_ , and you _lost it_."

"Yeah," retorted Ezekiel, "no thanks to _you_ , homie."

Harold spun around, his hands raised into that karate-chop position. His eyes flashed so fiercely behind his green-tinted glasses that Ezekiel was tempted to take a step back. But he didn't. He stayed right where he was, arms down by his sides, eyes narrowed to slits. Waiting.

When Harold spoke, his voice was soft.

"I'm sorry Zeke, I didn't quite get that. Would you care to repeat it for me?"

"Tch." Ezekiel made his favorite teeth-clicking sound and turned his face just a bit away. "You heard me clear'n loud, homes. 'Cuz of you, we lost the stupid challenge. You're the one who told me a' hit the stupid crocogator on his big, stupid snout with the stupid stick."

Harold stepped forward then, and this time Ezekiel really did take a step back. A very slight step. In a single swift movement Harold had caught his wrist and twisted it just enough to surprise Ezekiel, but not quite enough for it to hurt. The redhead opened his mouth to say something, something that started with "If you think I will let you-" but a nervous whimper of a voice cut him off.

"Uh, guys?"

Owen. He bounced up and down on the soles of his feet and tapped his pointer fingers together.

"Uh, sorry to interrupt, but I really have to, you know…" He nodded towards the bathroom and gave a sheepish smile.

Harold dropped Ezekiel's wrist and stepped aside. "Go right ahead, Owen. It's all yours."

Owen's smile broadened, and he disappeared behind the door. Harold gave Ezekiel one more look. It was a strange look, somewhere halfway between disgusted and apologetic.

"Look, Zeke. I'm sorry. It's nothing personal, really."

Ezekiel narrowed his eyes again and said nothing.

"It's just that an honorable warrior must step up and face the consequences of his actions, instead of just trying to shove the blame onto others."

He rocked back and forth on his feet. Heels, toes, heels, toes. Still waiting.

Harold pushed his glasses further up his nose with one finger and a bit of a self-important sniff. "You're our weakest link. It's only fair."

"Me," Ezekiel said, so softly that he could hardly hear it in his own ears. "The weakest link, eh?"

He realized then that while he had been muttering to himself, Harold had been talking. He had already turned away, but his head was arched high and his back was straight, and his words were clear.

"-Justin last time, I can't afford to take any risks. I hope you understand."

With that, Harold moved away down the hall and Ezekiel, still glaring, stuffed his fists into the pockets of his hoody and followed after him.

The weakest link, indeed.

The other four members of Team Victory - Bridgette, Lindsay, DJ, and Leshawna - had already perched themselves atop the benches in the elimination room. Their heads were bent together, but their murmuring stopped abruptly as Harold and Ezekiel came in. Ezekiel tried hard not to wilt beneath the glares, but he could feel a trembling in his legs as he made his way to a seat in the front row beside Bridgette, and he couldn't meet anyone else's eyes.

"Hey." Lindsay reached across Bridgette's lap and, with a smile, took Ezekiel's hand in her own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Good luck."

"Huh?"

"You know, with the eating contest."

He decided to ignore this very helpful comment. You'd think that after a full year and three seasons, she could learn to take a hint. He released Lindsay's hand and instead turned, face blank, towards Chris as he stepped into the room with a tray of paper bags. At his sides, Ezekiel's hands clenched into fists.

 _It ain't gonna be me._

Chris smiled his bright I'm-on-camera-and-can't-look-like-a-psychopath smile and held up a handful of passports. He said something, but the only two words that Ezekiel caught were 'results' and 'vote'.

 _It's gonna be me, eh?_

"Those who remain in the game" - here Chris held up one of the bags of peanuts - "will get in-flight snacks."

He curled his toes up tight inside his boots. _I've got a peanut allergy, guy._

"The following players are safe."

 _Please, God. I'll do anythin'- I swear! Anythin'! Just name it and consider it done._

"Leshawna."

Ezekiel briefly shut his eyes. _It won't be me, 'cuz that wouldn't be fair._

"Harold."

 _It was me first last time. It's always me first. It's someone else's turn now, eh?_

Slowly, Ezekiel unclenched his fists.

"Bridgette."

He felt his breathing still. Yes, that was only fair. He couldn't be going home.

"Lindsay."

They wouldn't vote him off just because he had interrupted the stupid song. They wouldn't vote him off just because he had been following Harold's stupid directions. They wouldn't vote him off just because he had been holding the stupid stick.

"And the last bag of peanuts goes to…"

No. They wouldn't. He hadn't even had a chance yet. He had trained himself for this, jogging across the prairie, trying to make himself stronger and faster. He had stayed up late studying up on different countries with a flashlight beneath his covers. He spoke _eight different languages_.

Well, only seven of them fluently. Even after so many years, those Russian words still escaped his grasp and left him instead tying his tongue in knots.

Chris stood there smiling for a few seconds longer, and then held out his arm. Ezekiel didn't even hear the name, the blood was roaring so loud in his ears.

They wouldn't.

The peanuts flew over Ezekiel's head. Automatically, he stood and turned to watch as DJ caught them.

"What?"

"You've got five seconds to strap this on," Chris called to him, forcing Ezekiel to face him again, "or the Drop of Shame will become the Drop of _Pain_." With that he tossed a parachute Ezekiel's way. He caught it without emotion. He just felt numb.

They had.

Suddenly Chef was there, gesturing for him to get some moves on. The sliding door on the slide of the jet had already been opened, and Duncan stood beside it with his arms folded and a bored expression plastered on his face. Ezekiel began walking towards it, that open door. Deep down inside him somewhere he had known, of course, but somehow he had hoped that if he just denied it hard enough, if he just prayed hard enough, the way he'd always been taught…

"Yo, that's unbelievable." He shot a brief, accusing glance to the others over his shoulder. Harold especially. "Some team."

Then he stopped walking, pausing a few seconds to gather his courage before he would slip on the parachute and plunge out the side of the jet. They had already been airborne for at least two hours now. It would be a long fall.

It was over. He couldn't do it anymore. He just couldn't. Inside, his heart had cracked. Essentially he was dead.

"You guys are all a bunch of-"

It happened so fast that he lost his grip on the parachute. Chef's boot connected with his back, shoving him the last two meters to the door and sending him flying right out into open space. Ezekiel screamed, but his voice was ripped away by the freezing air and whipping wind. His eyes were forced to close against the stinging. Ezekiel flapped his arms like a maniac, pleading silently for them to morph into wings. Somehow, one of his kicking legs snagged the parachute.

Yeah, _perfect_. Now he could use it to cushion his fall, assuming that he didn't die of shock first.

For a second or two Ezekiel tumbled head over heels, the force of Chef's kick having sent him spinning first outwards rather than down. His other leg tangled itself among the parachute strap. His arms flailed. His fingers struggled to snatch a grip on something, anything, even though he knew that he would find none.

And then, incredibly, he did.

Ezekiel didn't know how it happened. His eyes were closed, the wind was roaring in his ears, and he was panicking so much that it was a miracle he didn't black out. But he slammed against the jet's tail, landed on one of the two supporting fins, and rolled backwards head-over-heels, buffeted by the fierce wind.

"No, no no no no no no!"

Ezekiel caught hold of the fin with his fingers. His eyes flickered open, then shut. Only by keeping them narrowed to slits was he able to see, and even that was blurry and difficult. His fingers slid along the fin, forcing him to lose at least eight centimeters of space. Then they slipped again. The wind howled.

 _No, please! No! Please God, I'll do anything! I swear! You wouldn't let_ The Zeke _fall to his death!_

It was all trees and sand below him. A river (the Nile, still?) snaked across the landscape.

His fingers slid back a third time, burning and screeching against the metal.

"I'm not goin' anywhere!" he shouted, the words warbled against the wind. "This game's mine, eh!"

The force of the wind became too much against his face. It made his lips flap. Ezekiel squeezed his eyes shut and screamed out one final, defiant word.

" _Mine_!"

He was going to die. He was going to die out here if he didn't do something. He risked another bleary look at his fingers. His knuckles had gone white, whether from cold or from how tightly he was gripping the jet's left tail-fin he didn't know. Probably both.

How long until Chris landed the plane again? Far too long. All through the night, at least. He'd never last that long, not if he stayed here on the tail-fin. He had only one chance at self-preservation. He still had one of the parachute straps wrapped around his legs. There was a very small chance that he would be able to put it on while he fell through the air.

No, better yet- He could climb more firmly onto the jet before he put it on. Even if he was blown right off, it would give him a few seconds at least.

But he didn't know how to trigger the parachute. Probably, Chris had given the others a brief crash-course in falling-out-of-a-plane-without-dying-and-stuff while they were all sitting happily in the common area.

All of them, except for one person who had been conveniently missing, since Chris had _hurled him out the side of the plane before it even took off_. After Ezekiel had scrambled up the landing gear, he had hidden in the cargo hold until they had landed again, not wanting to risk being thrown out a second time. And yet, here he was.

Ezekiel's fingers burned. For one terrifying moment, his left hand slipped off the fin completely, and he had to fight the wind in order to catch a hold again. He surely would have blown clean off had he been anyone else, but he wasn't a three-time-rodeo-champ for nothing. Although staying out here on the fin didn't do him much good either. He gritted his teeth. This was hopeless.

But he had to try.

Ezekiel threw his left hand forward, just managing to catch a firmer grip higher up the tail-fin. His right hand soon joined it. Slowly but surely, he began inching his way along the metal.

 _Oh God, oh God, please save_ The Zeke _! Please!_

 _H_ e clamped the fin between his knees as he reached forward again. He was using his arms rather than his fingers now, pulling himself along in short jerks. If he could just make it to firmer ground-

With a howl that sounded rather a lot closer to laughter than any giggle ever had, the wind ripped the parachute from off of Ezekiel's legs and sent it spiraling downwards towards the earth. For a split-second Ezekiel's mind refused to process what had just happened.

Well, there went that plan. What was he to do now? He couldn't stay here. The air was too thin- there was only just enough for him to take in a short gulp, and then he had to gasp for more.

His slitted gaze fell on the windows along the jet's body.

It was worth a try. What other choice did he have?

It was slow going. The wind threatened to dislodge him every time he moved. And every time he didn't move. But finally, finally, after maybe fifteen long minutes, Ezekiel reached the place where the flanking fin connected with the main tail of the jet. He kept his belly pressed to the metal to decrease the chance of him flying off. His legs straddled the fin, wrapped tightly beneath it to hold him in place. He was cold but hot, exhausted but conscious, alive but dead, this was the beginning of the end.

Now he'd have to take a gamble.

The jet's tail sloped upward and to the right before him- tall and proud, slicing through the air like the dorsal fin of a shark. It was perpendicular to where he clung to the fin. It veered downwards, biting into the trunk below him. This, of course, meant that there was a space between Ezekiel and the jet's body where there was no place for him to stand and slide and creep.

He'd have to jump.

Ezekiel swallowed hard and touched one hand to his forehead. His toque was still there, of course- he'd grown into it especially over the last year or two. It had been made small but stretchy, and it fit snuggly against his scalp, snuggly enough that it hadn't flown off even in the rushing of the wind. Touching the fabric brought him a little bit of courage. If he tried the jump then he might not make it.

But if he stayed out here on the tail-fin, he would not last the whole flight. He had nothing to lose either way. At least if he made the leap then he would find a better foothold. Maybe.

Ezekiel pressed his palm against the jet's tail as he rose slowly, first to his knees and then to his feet. He stayed in a crouch, head ducked, knowing that he could be blown off at any moment. Somehow, he doubted he would have another chance at catching the flank-fin's tip.

 _Please_ …

Ezekiel stretched forward, hands ready to grasp, and leaped.

God came through for him and he got his miracle. Ezekiel had to twist as he began to fall, but he caught the hold with his right hand. His left hand was not long in joining it. It took a moment of kicking to pull himself up, but finally he was there.

Where was 'there', exactly?

Ezekiel, crouched and panting hard, surveyed his new surroundings. There were gray panels in all directions as far as he could see. Screwed on, it seemed. If only he had a screwdriver, he could have torn one off. Really, why hadn't he thought to bring a screwdriver out here with him?

So he really had only one option now: Spider-crawling his way along the body of the jet until he reached the cockpit window. And then… what? Chef would let him in, with any luck.

Right. The guy who had literally kicked him off the plane without a parachute would decide to let him back in. Possibly in his dreams.

Ezekiel shook his head, but began sliding his way along the top of the jet. He might have kept going until he reached the nose, or until the persistent wind finally managed to shake him off, but his fingers slipped through a series of holes.

"What the shizzle?"

He hadn't seen it from a distance what with the wind and all, but now that he was able to look closely he realized what he had found.

A grate.

It was a _grate_! With tiny square holes and everything! Why there was a _grate_ on the top of a _plane_ Ezekiel really didn't know, nor did he have the time or energy to care. Excitedly, he linked his fingers through the holes and gave a mighty tug.

The cover didn't budge. Not even a little.

"Aw, shoot."

He tried again to no avail. Well. Now what? His other option would be to shimmy his way along the length of the plane until he reached one of the wings. That was possible. But what would he do from there? Try to climb in through the windows? He'd have to break a hole in them somehow… and with what, his boot? Ezekiel didn't know if he would be able to kick hard enough while lying on his stomach and clinging to the wing for dear life.

He liked the idea of clinging to the plane with only one hand even less. And when - slash - if the glass shattered, someone would come running. Chris would surely catch him. They would just throw him out again, and all this would have been for naught.

Maybe they would let him actually put on the parachute this time, though.

Ezekiel pressed his cheek against the grate, wondering what he would find on the other side. It looked like…

… The scruffy blond top of Owen's head.

They were all there in the economy section. Well, those of the two losing teams, at least. His fellow members of Team Victory were there, as well as those on that second team… What was its name again? Something obnoxiously long. Team Chris something. Team Chris Shampoos His Hair?

Team Chris Is Really, Really, Really, Really Hot. Yeah- That sounded about right.

Even with his head close down against the plane, the wind still rampaged in Ezekiel's ears. Metal rattled beneath his cheek. It was clear that those below him were talking, but he couldn't quite make out the words over the furious wind- not to mention the screaming, cartwheeling Izzy.

Harold said something to Leshawna, and Noah said something to Harold that seemed to offend him. He said something back, and Bridgette took hold of his elbow in an attempt at calming him down. Harold shook her off and crossed his arms, a furious scowl etched on his face that Ezekiel could see even from here.

What a knob.

Lindsay offered up some earth-shattering nugget of wisdom that made Tyler and Leshawna fall over laughing, while the others just stared at them curiously. DJ, scratching his head, said something else, and then that new guy - Alexander? Something - nudged Noah with his elbow and pointed after Izzy, who had just run screaming from the room. Noah shook his head no and leaned back against the wall, face upturned. He was sitting just beside Owen, and if his eyes had been open then he might have seen Ezekiel peering down at them. And who knew what would happen then?

Ezekiel frowned, thinking hard. His fingers slipped a bit more as the wind rushed over him, but now he hardly noticed. Or cared. He had come too far to simply slide off. Why would God have helped him this far just to let him fall anyway?

With that thought in mind, Ezekiel offered up another quick, silent prayer for strength. Strength, and a distraction.

It took a few long, painful minutes before his prayer was answered. His arms and legs were sore from how tightly he was clamping onto the metal. His fingers, which had wedged themselves into the grate, ached like they'd been bitten by a thousand of those scarabs back in Egypt. A couple of them actually had, along with patches on his legs.

But finally, his distraction came in the form of Cody. He burst into the economy class and dove behind DJ for cover. Only a few heartbeats later, Sierra came running in, followed by Izzy. They found Cody in less than five seconds, and when they dragged him out of the room again (both of them giggling like maniacs), Cody began to howl. Tyler, Harold, and DJ went to help him with Lindsay and Leshawna following just a little more reluctantly. Alexander, apparently not wanting to be left behind, hurried after them. Last of all was Bridgette, who waited several long seconds before Owen said something to her that made her face turn a sickly color, and she sprinted out after the others.

That left Owen and Noah alone down there in the economy class. Ezekiel swore softly to himself that he would never doubt the power of his parents' God again, even if his prayers about his mother getting better had never come true.

"Guys," he tried to call. His voice came out thin and scratchy, and the wind ripped it away from him. Ezekiel swallowed and cleared his throat and tried again. "Guys. Hey. Yo, yo, dawgs."

Owen was talking animatedly to Noah, who seemed to have fallen asleep with his hands over his ears. Or maybe he was still awake, and only pretending to be sleeping in a futile attempt at convincing Owen to leave him alone. Either way, neither one could hear him.

He didn't have time for this.

Ezekiel began to work his lips a bit, pushing his tongue in circles around his mouth. When he had gathered a sizable amount of saliva, he placed his mouth close to the grate and spat. The goop landed on the back of Owen's neck and dripped down his shirt. He reached up, still happily engaged in his one-sided conversation with Noah, and wiped it away.

Figures.

Again Ezekiel spat on him, and this time Owen did look up. He stopped talking abruptly and just stared. His jaw hung slack.

"Hey." Ezekiel's voice was feeble, and again it didn't quite make it through the grate. He unclenched his fingers from the metal just enough to wave and flash a peace sign. Then he tapped on the edge of the grate. "Please… help…"

It was clear that Owen understood the request even if he couldn't hear the words. He shook his head in disbelief and then, slowly, carefully, undid the straps around his arms that had been holding him in place. He climbed up onto the bench - it sagged a bit beneath his weight - and locked his fingers around the metal grate. Despite the fact that it was screwed in, Owen ripped it right from the ceiling with a single tug. Ezekiel oozed into the hole and flopped down into Owen's arms. He lay there, numb all over, as Owen reached up to replace the grate's cover from the inside. Like the bench it sagged a bit, but not enough that the others would notice when they returned.

Then, tentatively, "Buddy?"

The biggest shock was that he could breathe again. It wasn't that he hadn't thought he would be able to breathe, it was simply that… Well, after half an hour out there on top of the plane he had sort of… forgotten what it was like to be able to actually fill his lungs rather than taking little gasps. He did fill his lungs, one big breath after another with his eyes squeezed so shut, they were open enough to bleed out hot wetness. He hugged Owen's shoulder more tightly as the effort of breathing forced tears to trickle all the way down his cheeks to his chin.

"Hey, buddy. Come on. It's okay."

Ezekiel shook his head, his face buried in Owen's shirt, and he felt the gentle giant squeeze him back. Owen didn't ask any questions. Ezekiel had never spent much time with Owen before, not at the original Playa Des Losers nor the Casa, but now he realized… He really liked this guy. Why had they never hung out together during those months between second and third season? He should have invited Owen to his farm at least once. They'd have had a great time romping through the woods and hunting crayfish in the creek.

"I doon't feel so good," Ezekiel mumbled into Owen's shoulder, and Owen set him down gently. Ezekiel's legs, weak as cooked spaghetti noodles bred to jellyfish, gave out beneath him and he lay in a puddle on the floor.

"Let's go get some food into you, buddy."

Again Ezekiel shook his head. His throat felt raw. His words were hoarse.

"… Chris…"

Owen spent a very long moment considering that problem. Somewhere in the distance, Ezekiel heard Cody give a strangled yelp.

Then Owen reached up again and pulled a large backpack from an overhead compartment. This was upended, its contents scattering all across the floor. Clothes, candy, comic books, used tissues, and lint-covered macaroni noodles that weren't in any container at all. Ezekiel shook his head again, but Owen didn't take 'No' for an answer. He lifted Ezekiel gently and set him inside the backpack. It smelled horrible in there, but Ezekiel couldn't fight him. Now that he was out of danger, his adrenalin had soaked away and left him utterly exhausted.

Dully, he peeked out the flap of the backpack to see Noah's eyes flutter behind their lids. He sat up slowly on the bench, stared in bewilderment at the mess on the floor, and then looked towards Owen. He asked some kind of question, but Ezekiel didn't hear what it was.

Owen's steps were tentative at first. He lurched to one side and then the other with the rocking of the plane. His fear of flying probably wasn't doing him any favors either (He did have a fear, didn't he?) But eventually he found his way to the door, and from there into the hall. Ezekiel sank down into the fabric, content to sleep, but he couldn't. Exhausted as he was, the jostling and the noise kept him conscious. Why all the noise?

Someone shouted Izzy's name. Another called out, "Sierra!" There came a metallic crash that sounded like a dozen pots and pans. Did he hear a trumpet too?

Ezekiel didn't know how long Owen walked. It felt like most of the planet's history. But eventually the backpack was dropped roughly to the floor, and Owen's large hands flipped open the backpack's top flap and dragged Ezekiel out.

The cargo hold.

Ezekiel had stayed in here during almost the entire flight to Egypt, and he recognized the place instantly.

"The others won't come down here," Owen said, pulling Ezekiel behind a stack of crates. He propped Ezekiel's head against a cardboard box and then went off, rummaging around here and there. Ezekiel watched him through lidded eyes. His breathing, which had still been coming in gasps, finally began to soften.

"As long as you stay hidden, I don't think Chris will find you either."

More rustling. A squeak. Rats? Weakly, Ezekiel tried to raise his head. Owen came back then with a thin, moth-eaten blanket - or was it the tarp of a tent? - and spread it over him.

"Get some rest now, buddy. I'll come and check up on you later, okay?"

"No… Don't. Chris will… find me."

"Aw, don't worry, little buddy. I promise you'll be okay. Now you just stay here and rest up."

Ezekiel blinked up at Owen's cheerful smile. "Why-" he tried, then cleared his throat. "Why're ya… so eager a' just go an' help me like this?"

"Well, you're my little buddy! And that's what friends do."

"Fr… iends?"

Owen didn't seem to hear him, because he was humming as he walked away, his footsteps causing the floor to vibrate until he had finally gone.

Ezekiel slept. Sometime later Owen came back to him, grinning in unspoken apology.

"I was going to bring you some leftover food from dinner," he said, "but I got hungry on the way here and I ate all of it. Sorry."

Ezekiel gave Owen a blank stare for the longest time, then lay down again and turned his head away. "S'okay, homes."

The same thing happened for "breakfast" the next day. Owen snuck down to see him and handed Ezekiel an empty plate. When Ezekiel pointed out that the plate was empty, Owen seemed genuinely confused. He left.

By this point Ezekiel had gotten most of his strength back. He moved around the cargo hold, wobbling at first, but then he got the hang of it. Rats squeaked at him and skittered in the darkness. Ezekiel was reminded of the barn rats back on his farm, although he was still too weak to chase these ones down and catch them with his bare hands. Not yet. Not yet.

Dinner was a crust of a lettuce-tomato-bacon-blueberry-candy sandwich and a marshmallow, which Ezekiel accepted from Owen reluctantly. At least it was something.

He never came for breakfast, though Ezekiel waited. Had he forgotten? Possibly. You never could tell with that big guy…

Boredom struck him. He moved around the cargo hold a bit more, investigating the contents of this or that box. Finally, late in the afternoon, Ezekiel heard the voices.

"Great, so what sort of junk do you think Chris keeps stashed down here in this magical treasure trove of dreams and wonder?"

"Ew! Aw man, what _is_ all this drippy stuff?"

They were coming for him. Ezekiel scooted farther back, one hand cupped over his mouth. He hoped that in doing so he could keep them from hearing the soft whisper of his breathing. It was Noah and Tyler, by the sound of it.

Rustling. Then a third voice, "I'm seeing a tiny Tokyo, a giant, radioactive monster…"

Izzy laughed. "Oh, _yes_! Big O can be the monster! Huh? Big O, please?"

"Al, you're a genius."

Ezekiel flashed hot at his head, then cold at his feet. That was Owen. Had he led them down here? Gone back on his word? Betrayed him? Surely not!

"Super Japanese idea, Al! Nice!"

"Noah? What say you?"

"Meh. I guess."

They moved off to the left-hand side of the room, and Team Victory - Team Victory! - came down into the cargo hold next. The hairs on the back of Ezekiel's neck bristled just at the sound of Harold's voice. He crept a little closer, peeking over boxes, trying to get a good look at what was going on.

"Oh, guys, look over here! I found a horse!"

"A _horse_?" echoed Bridgette.

"A _horse_?" echoed Ezekiel, but softer. He must have been more off his game than he'd thought if he'd completely missed the presence of a farm animal down here. Granted, he had confined himself to the opposite corner of the hold in case of crossing paths with any cameras. He rubbed his nose against his sleeve, sniffled a bit, and then looked for Team Victory again. Chris must have sent them down here for a challenge, then. Ezekiel slit his eyes and leaned just a little bit further out from behind his crate to watch them push and pull Lindsay's horse over to the far side of the room.

Huh. Well, when they failed this challenge then they'd soon be wishing that they hadn't voted him off. Knobs.

The others came thumping down into the hold as Team Victory left. Sticky as tsetse flies, they trailed about in silent circles for a few long seconds. Then Courtney said, loud enough that the rats in the back squeaked and skittered away for cover, "A pathetic pile of stuff that nobody wants. _Ugghh._ Good-bye, first class…"

Her pretty brown eyes locked onto Ezekiel's then, and she blinked in alarm. Ezekiel ducked away and pressed his back against the crate.

"Was that-?" Cody asked, but didn't finish the question. No one did. Silence fell over the cargo hold, punctuated only by the occasional squeaks of the rats. Then Gwen murmured something softly, Sierra laughed, and they moved away and began rustling through cardboard boxes.

They didn't even check to see if it was him. If he were here. If he were injured and bleeding all over the place.

Sweat trickled down Ezekiel's forehead as he slid down to a crouch; he mopped his brow with the end of one sleeve. That had been way too close for comfort. Stupid, stupid.

From the far side of the room came Owen's voice, almost in a roar, quickly followed by Tyler's "All right, yeah!", an insistent command courtesy of Harold, and a mumbled comment that sounded like it had come from Bridgette. Even when he was sure Cody and the girls had moved away from his hiding spot behind the crates - and within minutes an argument broke out between them - Ezekiel didn't dare move.

Another long minute passed. A rat scurried right across his hand. Without even thinking about it, Ezekiel twisted his wrist and snagged the tiny creature in a loose fist. It squeaked once, twitched twice, but did not fight as he ran soothing fingers over its spine.

His knees pulled up to his chest, Ezekiel held the rat close to his face. There they sat together, just waiting quietly, just breathing, just listening, until finally the three teams of teenagers left the cargo hold, and it was quiet in his fragile little world once again.


End file.
